Dragon My Heart Around

by Marianne Morea

  “Why don’t you take the book home?” Gerri nodded toward the volume. “The story is actually an oral tale. The language inside is ancient, so I don’t expect you to be able to decipher the words, but the drawings tell the story well enough.” She pushed the book toward Camille’s waiting fingers.

  Cami moved to open the front cover when someone else entered the rare books room. Sparing a glance toward the door, she ran a hand over the beautiful image instead and then pulled the book closer.

  “I appreciate the chance to take my time with something this rare,” Camille said, grateful. “I’ll make sure to return it to you after work tomorrow.”

  Gerri waved her hand again. “Keep it for the week, dear. Come see me then. I should know more about a match for you at that point. My gut is already tingling with a name, but I need to be sure.”

  “Who?” Camille’s interest perked.

  Gerri shook her head. “I can’t say yet.”

  The book under Cami’s hand warmed against her skin, sending a tingle through the tattoo on the inside of her wrist and her eyes flew to Gerri’s knowing gaze.

  With a smirk, Gerri nodded. “I know I’m being a bit of a tease, but I truly can’t say yet.”

  Camille smirked. “Your gut is tingling and so is my tattoo. I suspect the two are somehow related, just as I suspect you like being a tease.”

  Gerri laughed out loud. “Very good, Camille. Teasing, flirting, they’re much the same and too many people forget they’re a practiced art. They build suspense in all kinds of relationships, especially in the kind I broker.” She winked. “And the more you do, the better your skills. Kind of like foreplay.”

  “Foreplay?” Now it was Cami’s turn to laugh. “That is the ultimate in forgotten skills. I’ve been with guys who don’t get my tits are attached to my body.”

  Her grin sobered and considered the older woman. “You asked what I dream about. Well, that’s it in a nutshell. Foreplay. But not only in terms of sex. I want a guy who really knows me. Knows what I want. What I need. Someone willing to take risks. Willing to take the time to make all our experiences fulfilling.”

  Gerri angled her head as if weighing options. “There is someone who has been waiting for my help forever, but his situation is difficult.”

  “Difficult? Why?”

  Cami waited for an answer, but when Gerri didn’t elaborate, she lifted a hand, irked. “I like you Mrs. Wilder, but I won’t for much longer if you’re going continue to be evasive. Are you telling me in a nice way he’s divorced or separated? To be honest, I have enough emotional baggage. I don’t need someone else’s adding to the load.”

  “He’s not divorced, Camille. In fact, he’s not attached to anyone. He’s just not as available as I would prefer. Still, it’s a matter of when the right person comes along.”

  “Okay, so he’s busy. I get that. I’m working on my thesis in classical literature, Fact versus Falsehood, so I don’t have much free time either.”

  “Interesting topic.” The older woman tapped the book’s cover. “Not all fantasy is straight up fiction, Camille, and not all fiction is fantasy.”

  Cami angled her head at the older women. Wow. Cryptic much? Was Mrs. Wilder being discreet or was her vagueness deliberate?

  Gerri met the girl’s doubtful expression and nodded. “I know I seem guarded, but there’s a method to my madness. You’re going to have to take a leap of faith with me, Camille. I’ve yet to disappoint a client.”

  The matchmaker’s eyes took on that far away melancholy again, but the shadow disappeared at quickly as it came. She straightened her shoulders and gestured to the book.

  “Since you’re an expert at untangling truth from tales, take a crack at what’s hidden between these pages. My guess is you’ll thoroughly enjoy its inner secrets more than you expect.”

  She patted Camille’s hand and then slipped her bag onto her shoulder. “Call me in a week. Sooner if something appears that interests you.” Her gaze dropped to the book before lifting to meet Camille’s eyes.

  With a nod, Gerri left without another word and Cami lifted the tome, the tingle in her wrist spreading to the tattoo on her back.

  Chapter Three

  “Crazy old bat.” Camille muttered, polishing off the last of the bottle of merlot she picked up after work.

  She tapped the stemmed crystal with her fingernail, thinking. Gerri Wilder was a hard one to peg. Eccentric? Absolutely. But a nut job? No. The woman was classy and well-spoken. Intelligent, if unconventional.

  Cami had to admit it. She liked the older woman, even if she didn’t hold much hope for her as a matchmaker.

  She looked at her wine glass and exhaled. “You’re drinking in solitary, Forester. If that’s not halfway to cat lady then I don’t know what is.”

  With a sigh she glanced at her own tabby curled on the tufted window seat, his tail swishing without a care in the world. Lifting her glass, she clicked the inside of her cheek in salute. “Who the hell cares? Right, Tigger? Fucking meow.”

  Camille drained her wine and put the glass on the coffee table with a soft clink. She reached for Gerri’s book on the pillow and scooted higher against the couch cushions. For some reason, the timeworn tome captivated unlike any before. The manuscript belonged in a museum or at the very least a rare book auction. Not sitting on her lap in her living room.

  “Okay Ms. Matchmaker, let’s see what secrets you’ve hidden in here. I’m half drunk and naked under my bathrobe, so nothing’s going to shock me.”

  Inhaling the familiar scent of aged paper and leather, Camille ran a palm over the cover, her wrist tingling again.

  She opened the book and turned the yellowed pages with practiced care. Gerri was right. She couldn’t read a word, but the images were spectacular.

  Cami expected woodcuts or sketches, but these illustrations mesmerized with the same iridescence as the cover. They were stunning. Like a sketchbook belonging to one of the great masters.

  “Holy shit.” Cami’s eyes went wide as she turned to a center spread. The images across both pages were nothing short of rough porn. Like the brothel frescoes preserved in ancient Pompeii.

  With a chuckle, she licked her lips. “Wow. Score one for shock-value.” The vivid descriptions didn’t spare the eyes, detailing every sexual position imaginable. The more deviant the image, the more defined.

  “Wherever this came from, they certainly knew how to get their freak on.”

  The wine made her giggle at the kinky images and she browsed the following pages, turning them slowly for full effect.

  “Oh. My. God.” Her hand froze on the delicate parchment, her eyes skimming the full frontal illustration spread out in all its well-hung glory.

  “Oh honey, if only you were real,” she murmured, licking her lips again.

  The image was so perfect and inviting.

  …and sexy.

  The man’s eyes seemed to smolder as if privy to your innermost secrets, with an invitation to strip them bare.

  Camille traced the meticulously drawn masculine features, her fingertips sliding over the two dimensional planes of his broad chest to the well-endowed pack, break me off a piece of that! I would straddle his saddle for sure, and ride myself bowlegged.

  The picture held her captivated and she couldn’t drag her eyes from the sexy image. With all its detail, the drawing had to be a depiction of an ancient fertility God. He was certainly hot enough to make a woman’s ovaries stand up and take notice.

  She ran the flat of her palm over the image again, and odd pins and needles prickled her tattoos.

  Arching against the strange feeling, her eyes stayed on the illustration. “If you were real I’d wrap my legs around your hips and tell you to fuck me stupid.”

  Fuzzy from the wine, she lifted her hand to her lips, letting her fingers drift toward her décolletage.

  “Oh, God.” She hiccupped. “Valerie is right. I really need to get laid.”

  Closing her eyes, she leaned back
against the arm of the couch and stretched her legs across the cushions. The front of her robe fell open and her fingers slipped through the gap above her breasts.

  “You may not be real, lover, but your sexy picture is hot enough to tease, and in my imagination I can make you do whatever I want.”

  Camille circled his likeness with one hand while she skimmed her palm over her nipples, their peaks stiffening inside her robe. She opened her eyes, keeping her gaze on the gorgeous man in the picture.

  With a sigh, she sunk deeper into the soft couch, imagining his hands and lips on her skin, and her fingers snaked their way to her pussy.

  She closed her eyes again, one hand drifting to the outside edge of the illustration. “Ouch! Fuck!” her eyes snapped open. “What the—?”

  Blood welled from a deep papercut and dripped onto the parchment.

  “Shit!” Camille yanked her hand back, bringing her finger to her mouth. “Fuck,” she mumbled.

  She sat up and swung her legs to the edge of the couch, her body still humming with slight arousal.

  “Great,” she muttered putting the book on the coffee table. “Mrs. Wilder trusts me with a priceless artifact because I’m a professional and what do I do? I damage it while masturbating.”

  With a rough exhale, she wrapped the cut with a crumpled tissue from her pocket and then tugged the non-bloodstained sleeve over her hand. She leaned over the illustration and daubed at the blood with the edge of her cuff, trying not to smear the crimson stain further into the parchment.

  Annoyed, Cami blew her hair from her forehead. “Calm down, Forester. You can do this. Dried blood is brown. You have the tools to smooth the blemish into the book’s patina at work tomorrow. No one will know the difference.”

  Frowning, she watched the small, bloody splotch soak further into the dried paper, its uneven edges diffusing oddly into dark, spidery lines.

  “Or maybe not.”

  She pushed herself from the couch and stalked toward the laundry room off the kitchen after rummaging for a bandage. With an annoyed tug, she pulled her robe from her shoulders.

  “Note to self. Horny librarians and hot pics of ancient Gods do not mix.”

  Grabbing a stain stick from the laundry counter, she carried her robe back into the living room, naked, scrubbing the blotch on her cuff with both hands. “Neither does white terrycloth and blood.”

  Cami blinked, her hands frozen mid-scrub. She held her breath, focusing on the pair of bare feet in her peripheral vision standing in front of the couch.

  Her gaze traveled upward from there, skimming well-defined calves and powerful thighs before stopping at crotch-level and a package that rivaled the one in the illustration.

  Wide eyes shot to the man’s face and a scream formed in her throat.

  “My hips await your tightly wrapped legs. I am yours to fuck stupid.”

  “Holy SHIT!” Camille’s wide eyes bugged even more and the scream tore from her lips. She scrambled back toward the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room.

  “You…you...heard what I said? “Wh…who are you? How did you get in here? How long have you been hiding in my house?”

  Eyes frantic, she clutched her robe to her chest, holding the stain stick as if it were a weapon. “Get out!”

  He angled his head, confused. “You summoned me.”

  “Summoned you? Dude, this isn’t funny. I don’t know who is behind this practical joke, but I’m not laughing! Get out or I’m calling the police!”

  The man didn’t say a word and Camille’s mind raced with options. Why did she have to drink the entire bottle of wine?

  He stood five feet away. Naked and unmoving. Completely, gloriously, naked.

  He was utterly stunning and a dead ringer for the fertility God in the illustration. That much wasn’t lost on her wine-soaked mind.

  Long dark hair tied with a leather string framed chiseled features. A gorgeous face with eyes the color of night looked at her puzzled, but otherwise unfazed at being nude in her living room.

  “Who are you,” she asked again, squaring her shoulders. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was shaky in her ears, so she tightened her jaw.

  He lifted one broad shoulder, the muscles in his sculpted torso twitching. “My name is of no consequence,” he replied. “It hasn’t been for some time. I’m here because you made a blood offering. I am yours. I belong to you.”

  Belong to me? As if.

  The man’s voice was like melting chocolate and his slight accent more than a little sigh worthy.

  Camille licked her lips, allowing her eyes to dip over his body once more before jerking her gaze to his face again.

  “Am I not everything you imagined?” he asked.

  Imagined? Holy fuck, you have no idea.

  She ignored the instant heat between her legs, blaming it on the wine and ancient erotica. “Look, I’m only saying this once more. Get out of my house. I don’t care who sent you or why. This isn’t funny.”

  Still a little buzzed, her body flushed with the way he stared. Had this been any other scenario she would lick his thighs and more.

  Oh baby, much more.

  Camille shook her head, squashing the feeling.

  She watched his nostrils flare and he angled his head, his lips tipping in a small grin.

  Cami bristled at his smirk. Was she that obvious?

  “Dude, you’ve got three seconds or I’m calling the police.”

  He lifted one muscular arm and held his hand out, the action as beckoning as his crooked smile. His eyes swept her ample hips and thighs and whatever the crumpled line of her robe didn’t conceal.

  “It’s not often I am summoned by one so young and full.” Teasing fingers trailed the hard planes of his torso. “Come, let me pleasure you.”

  One hand shot up. “I don’t think so, buster! You stay right where you are!”

  Confusion muddied his gorgeous dark eyes. “Do I displease you?”

  Was he thick or just determined? “Cut the act already and get dressed. I can’t talk to you standing there all naked…and…and—” Heat rose in her cheeks as her gaze flicked to the not so subtle stirring between his legs.

  His brows knotted in disbelief and he spread his hands across his body. “Do you not like what see?”

  Camille’s eyes bugged. “L…Like? Dude, you’re pornography incarnate, not to mention a citation for solicitation just waiting to be written.”

  He made no move to leave and Cami’s heart thud in her chest. Either he was a psycho or someone was playing a cruel joke.

  The latter made her eyes narrow. “Valerie sent you, didn’t she?” Groping for her cellphone, she knocked knick-knacks off the half wall behind her.

  Keeping her eyes on him, she pressed Val’s number.

  “Hello?” a sleepy voice answered.

  “I know you were hot to make your point this afternoon, but this is low even for you! We’re not in college anymore.”

  “Cam? What the fuck are you babbling about?” she asked confused. “What the hell time is it?”

  “You know exactly what I’m babbling about! The naked man standing in my living room! What else?”

  “Have you gone insane? You wake me up in the middle of the night screaming about naked men—” A pause interrupted her rant. “Wait—are you saying you’ve got a naked man in your living room?” she asked fully awake.

  “Yes! She finally gets it!”

  “Girlfriend, you have some seriously fucked up priorities. No one likes a juicy play-by-play more than me, but not as a live audience.”

  “Valerie! This isn’t funny. I know we pulled pranks like this back in the day, but you’re little surprise nearly gave me a heart attack! Give me the name of the escort service you used so I can call off the dogs.”

  Val laughed out loud. “Oh, Cam. I don’t know who sent you the naked hunk-o-gram, but it wasn’t me. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my allotted time arguing. Especially since he’s probably on
the clock.”

  Camille clutched her robe tighter. “You are so not helping! If you didn’t send him, then that means I have a psycho standing in my living room.” She shook her head. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Cam, I’m not the only friend you have. Before you call the police and ruin what could be the time of your life, isn’t there anyone else you know with a risqué sense of humor?”

  “No.” She chewed her lip. “Wait—well, maybe.”

  “See?” Valerie yawned again. “Why don’t you wake them up next and ask before you jump to conclusions?”

  “Ockham’s razor, that’s why!”

  Valerie sputtered on the other side of the phone. “You’re kidding, right? Ockham’s razor, my ass. It is one o’ clock in the morning, girlfriend, and I am in no mood to spar wits with you.”

  “It means all things being equal, the simplest explanation applies. He’s a psycho and I’m hanging up and calling the police.”

  “Fine, but if someone did send him, you’re going to be very embarrassed.”

  “Not if he’s an escort, plus he’s trespassing.”

  “Cam—”

  She hung up without answering. Chewing the side of her lip again she eyed the gorgeous hunk. After overhearing her conversation with Valerie, you would think he’d be out the door in a flash. But no. He was still in the same spot, nonplussed.

  Chapter Four

  “Well, my best friend says she didn’t send you, so that only leaves one other person, except this doesn’t fit her style, even if she is a matchmaker,” Camille muttered, more for her own benefit than anyone else.

  Cami eyed him as she scrolled through her redials before hitting Gerri’s number. It rang twice, but then went to voicemail.

  At the telltale beep, she exhaled. “Mrs. Wilder, this is Camille Forester. I need to speak with you immediately. It’s an emergency.” She hung up the phone. “Goddamn it Gerri Wilder, where the hell are you.”